by Jan Coffey
Chapter 8
Andrew Warner was dying. Aside from Tracy, Owen knew that just a few others knew what was coming.
Owen had read everything he could find on lung cancer. He’d read about hospice. He’d read about death and dying. They all said essentially the same thing.
Everybody eventually died. It was part of the deal. Sadness for some final moment shouldn’t dominate a person’s life; rather, celebration for each passing day should be the driving force. What an incredible opportunity to wake up in the morning and be able to challenge the world again and again. Living every moment.
What a crock of shit, Owen thought as he sped across the Jamestown Bridge. All bullshit. But it was the same bullshit that he had used to convince himself to come to Newport. To try to recreate something he and Andrew had never had. Something they would never have.
“You mean a lot to him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her silence drew his glance. She was staring out the window. The morning sun had completely burned through the mists and was sparkling off the raindrops on the bridge. Christ. He had no reason to snap at her.
“We’re old friends,” he said, his tone gentler.
Her face turned, and her eyes met his. “It shows.”
He shifted his gaze back to the road. She didn’t ask any more questions, so he let it go. It wasn’t something he wanted to talk about.
Old friends. For years, that had always been his answer to anyone who asked about Owen’s relationship with the older man. But that hadn’t always been his answer.
He’s just a friend of my mother’s.
He’s the guy who takes care of us.
He’s the one who checked my mother into this...this hospital.
Yeah, he’s the guy who pulled some strings to get me out of that mess.
Him? He just keeps track of me. He knows the headmaster.
Owen had given a number of answers over the years. But he’d been a kid at first, living in the slums of West Philly with his substance-abusing mother, and not understanding what exactly Andrew Warner was to them. And to this day, after all the half-assed explanations the older man had given him over the years, he still didn’t know. Not really. Not really.
Well, maybe now was the time.
“Would it be too much to ask if we were to stop at your place first?”
Sarah’s question broke into Owen’s brooding thoughts, and he threw a quick look at her.
“I’d like to change into my own clothes. Also, I’d hate to drop in at the office in broad daylight and run into someone I know.”
“I thought you said the office was shut down for the month.”
“It is. But with Judge Arnold being held at ACI, and me supposedly dead, I have no idea what the schedule is. Linda could easily be there today.”
“Linda?”
“Our office manager. She pretty much runs the office, the schedules, the business side of things.” She adjusted the laptop by her feet. “I can call the office, and if there is no answer, I can access a lot of the files remotely.”
“Don’t you trust this Linda?”
“Of course I do. But I don’t want to get any more people involved than I have. I am supposed to be dead, and it’s just not that easy explaining to people in twenty-five words or less what I’m trying to do.” He sensed her gaze on his face. “And not everybody will be as trusting and as accepting as Dr. Warner.”
It was his cue, but he was done discussing Andrew. He was done even thinking about him for today. There was a big mess in Owen’s lap right now. A big mess named Sarah Rand.
Owen made a quick stop at a convenience store and picked up some necessities while she waited in the car. There was nothing that resembled food in that refrigerator.
It was still just a little after seven in the morning when they turned off of Ocean Drive onto the long driveway leading to his building. He pulled into his usual parking space.
She took her laptop, her leather case, and one of the grocery bags.
“I’ll make a second trip for the other bags,” he said, picking up her suitcases.
“Could we use your entrance off the terrace?”
“Of course.” In fact, it was probably a good idea. Being a working actor had its rewards, but privacy wasn’t one of them, and bringing home a woman was sure to attract the attention of...well, at least a few of his neighbors.
He led the way along the stone wall to the flagstone terrace and his own sliding glass door and unlocked it.
Once inside, Owen paused a moment by the door and watched with amusement as Sarah moved comfortably about the place, dropping her case on the sofa, putting the laptop on the coffee table, taking the groceries into the kitchen. All traces of vulnerability were gone and this suited him just fine. He couldn’t afford to let himself forget who she was and why she was staying with him. He remembered the suitcases that he still held in each hand.
“You can leave those anywhere.”
He met the friendly green eyes. “I only have one bedroom.”
A blush crept up into her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “I...I should only be here...until tonight.”
“That’s good.”
He could feel her eyes following him as he took the suitcases into his bedroom. He deposited them on the bed and went back to the living room. She was still standing where he’d left her. There was no mistaking it. There was a sexual pull between them. But somehow, running to Andrew had sobered Owen to his responsibilities. “I’ll get the rest of the groceries out of the car.”
“Do you want help?”
“No. I can handle it.”
There was a smile and an expression of gratitude.
He was shutting the back door of the Range Rover when he heard the car coming down the drive. The sixth sense he’d cultivated as a certified juvenile delinquent told him who it was before he even looked. The car pulled up beside him.
“Mr. Dean?”
Owen looked blankly at the man behind the wheel. At the wrinkled, white, short sleeved shirt. At a shiny tie so shapeless and worn that Owen figured it must have been handed down father-to-son since some time around the Crusades. The driver’s arm was draped over the mirror on the outside of the unmarked car.
“Aren’t you Owen Dean?”
“Captain Archer, I presume.”
“That’s right. Dan Archer.” A set of uneven teeth flashed in the man’s pallid face. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “How did you know?”
“Just a lucky guess.” Owen moved the bag of groceries from one arm to the other. “What can I do for you, Captain?”
“Hold on.” Archer pulled into the parking space next to Owen’s and quickly got out of the car. “Actually, I’m here to ask you the same thing.”
Owen leaned against the back of his car and faced the man. “A return phone call would have done just as well. No reason to drive all the way out here.”
“Hey, it’s not every day I get a chance to visit a movie star in his little hideaway.” The man surveyed the stone chateau. “Nice place to hang your hat.”
“It’s all condos, Captain. I only rent a little apartment. Not much to it, really.” The way the man’s eyes continued to scan the building, Owen knew no matter what he said, Archer was still determined to be impressed. “I really appreciate you coming all the way down here, but as far as my phone call last night...”
“Anything in the bag gonna melt?”
Owen glanced down at the bag of groceries in his arm. “No. I just got back. Now as far as the call...”
“I was just finishing up the nightshift. So, no problem swinging by. But yeah. Jeez, it was a long night. How about a cup of coffee for an overworked civil servant, while you tell me what you called about?”
“Sorry, Captain, but I’m expecting an important call.”
“Hey, I understand. I won’t stay long. You want a hand with that bag?”
Owen frowned at the detective. No longe
r distracted by the building or the fancy cars parked nearby, Archer was focusing on Owen himself. The detective’s eyes had a hawkish look to them. Owen had not invited him in, and the policeman’s instincts were obviously aroused. “I’m fine with the bag. Why don’t you come in, then?”
He led the detective through the main door of the converted mansion. “Have you been inside the chateau before?”
“Nah! I don’t often get to see the insides of any of these fancy places. Unless, of course, there’s a drug bust or something. My wife and I got a little place in the Fifth Ward. A little noisier now with tourists than it used to be, but it’s home.”
Owen stopped in the great hall beyond the entry foyer. Archer’s eyes assessed the giant crystal chandelier hanging overhead. The twin sets of marble stairs hugging the two walls. Owen pointed at a sofa near the dark, cavernous fireplace.
“If you wait here a minute, I’ll just run this down to my apartment. There’s a library at the south end of the building. It looks out on the terrace and the ocean. Worth the price of admission itself.”
“I’ll take a rain check on that one, Mr. Dean. It was a long night for me, and that cup of coffee would do me just fine.”
“Sure. Another time.”
As they walked down the hallway toward his own door, Owen’s mind raced with explanations for Sarah’s presence in his apartment. They reached his door, and he jingled the keys in his hand, pausing as Archer bent down to pick up the newspaper.
Owen turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.
“Honey, I’m home.”
~~~~
“What are you worrying about? If she was going to go to the goddamn cops, she’d have done it last night, when she clocked me with that fifty pound dumbbell.”
“You were already paid for the job, Frankie,” the voice barked through the phone.
“Look, I tried to snuff the second broad for you. Gratis, as my lawyer would say. Now, if Jake was out, he never woulda agreed to doing a second hit for nothing like that.”
“For nothing, you fat fuck? You never did it in the first place.”
“I did. I mean, Jake did.” Frankie weaseled. “Trust me, that was no hundred pound fish we dragged outta that condo. I mean, how else could those cops have made the blood match between the bitch’s apartment and the judge’s boat, if there was no stiff?”
“That won’t mean shit if she turns up, asshole.” The voice turned low and menacing. “You know how I feel about being crossed, Frankie. In fact, just last night I met with a couple of your friends who were telling me they’d be more than willing to stuff your face down a john for free.”
Frankie swiped at beads of sweat forming out on his brow with the back of a fleshy hand. “Look, what do you want me to do? I don’t even know where the bitch is hiding right now.”
“Read my lips, Frankie. Finish…the…fucking…job. If you don’t, I’ll get someone who will finish her and you both. Got it?”
~~~~
Scott Rosen shut the telephone off and placed it on the arm of the oversized leather chair in his study. His fingers reached for the TV remote. The lawyer immediately turned the volume back up as the morning news flashed video clips of the news stories ahead.
A five car pile-up on the S-curve into Providence. A fourteen-year-old girl previously missing from Warwick found in Boston. A shot of Senator Gordon Rutherford commenting on a botched drug bust in Cranston. Sports. Weather.
“You didn’t come to bed last night.” Lucy’s arms encircled his neck from behind and he trapped her two hands in one of his own. “Does my tossing and turning bother you?”
“No, of course not.”
She stroked the morning whiskers on Scott’s face before reaching up and removing the glasses from his nose. She cleaned them with the bottom of his own T-shirt before putting them back on his nose. “I’ve never seen you so consumed by a case as you are with this one.”
“Hmm.”
“Judge Arnold might be the one locked up, but you are the one who seems to be suffering the most. What is it, Scott? I’ve never known you to keep yourself away from me like you have over the past couple of weeks.” She brushed a kiss across his temple. “You know I’m not a nosy wife. I never pry into your work or try to compete with it for your attention. I’m just starting to worry about you.”
He placed a kiss absently on her arm, but his attention remained focused on the television set. “I have a lot on my mind right now, honey. I’m sorry.”
The uncomfortable silence was filled by an obnoxious car commercial.
“I think this baby is coming sooner than we think.” She placed a kiss on top of his mussed hair and pushed herself upright. She was a master at maintaining her dignity. “I wish you could have come with me last night to the birthing class. Everything seems so real now. So imminent.”
Lucy continued to talk as she headed toward the kitchen, but Scott reached over and picked up the remote, turning the volume up higher as Senator Rutherford’s tanned face flashed onto the screen.
“…should all be commending these dedicated police officers, rather than criticizing their actions. But in the end it all comes back to the bill I have been pushing in the Senate. A bill that will put more police on the street, and provide more resources for local and state law enforcement agencies across the country.”
The caption Murder by the Sea showed in red letters behind the newscaster, who introduced the segment with a comment that new allegations were surfacing that Judge Arnold, being held for the murder of Sarah Rand, might have had a hand in the death of his wife, a month earlier.
Scott watched the senator again appear onscreen, responding to a question obviously posed at the same press conference.
“These rumors of Judge Arnold’s possible involvement in the tragic death of his beloved wife Avery are despicable. Anyone who was fortunate enough to know Avery Van Horn Arnold, knows that her death was the result of a long and courageous battle against cancer. I know what it is like to lose a spouse, and Judge Arnold does not need the added pain of such unfounded innuendo.”
“Clever. Very clever.” Scott absently reached up and accepted the cup of coffee Lucy handed him.
“I didn’t know he ever was married.” She sat down on the arm of the oversized chair, both hands protectively wrapped around her bulging stomach.
“Twenty years ago.”
“What happened to her?”
“She ran away with a traveling salesman.”
Lucy took the remote out of his lap and muted the volume as another commercial came on. “Seriously. What happened to her?”
“She took off during his first Senate race.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Probably because he is a workaholic. No doubt she couldn’t accept playing second fiddle to anything in his life.”
Lucy’s fingers lifted his chin until he was looking into her large brown eyes. “Well, you can forget it, Scott Rosen. I am not running away.”
“Good!” he said, his hand resting hesitantly on her firm belly.
“But you, on the other hand, had better get going before I have to kick your butt all the way from here to the office.”
Scott Rosen made his way up the stairs. As he stepped into the shower, he could not know that his wife was picking up the phone and dialing the code to check the last incoming call.
Wordlessly, Lucy scratched the number on a piece of paper and tucked it safely away before heading upstairs herself.
Chapter 9
She was nowhere in sight. The laptop sat open on the coffee table. Her leather case sat on the floor, tucked halfway under an oversized pillow that had fallen to the ground. The bedroom door was nearly shut.
“You married?” Archer asked, surprise in his voice.
“No, why do you ask?”
“Well, that ‘Honey, I’m home’ thing sounded pretty domestic.”
“No. Just a private joke. It goes with the territory, you know
? Talking to yourself? Writing at all hours of the day?” He closed the laptop on his way to the kitchen. “High test or decaf?”
“Nothing but the real stuff for me.”
Owen, dropping the bag on the counter, was relieved to find no sign of Sarah in the kitchen, either. The coffee was already started.
“Very trusting, leaving your doors and windows open like this.”
“They tell me it’s a safe neighborhood.” He watched as the detective walked toward the terrace door. He slid open the screen door and stepped outside. Following him, Owen picked up some old newspapers from a side table and dropped them on the floor, effectively hiding Sarah’s leather case.
“Nice view.” Archer came back inside. His trained eyes surveyed the spacious living room. “It must cost a few bucks to live in a place like this.”
“Not too bad.” Owen returned to the kitchen and put the groceries away.
“How about a twenty-five cent tour?”
“What you see is what you get.” Owen thought his tone was a little short, but he suddenly didn’t give a damn. “All that you haven’t seen is the bedroom, and if you don’t mind...”
“Hell, no!”
“It might be the end of the shift for you, Captain, but I’m just starting my work day. Sugar or cream?”
“Black for me.”
Two mugs were sitting next to the already percolating pot. Owen filled the cups and plunked them down on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. After studying the pictures on the walls, Archer finally came by the counter and sat on the high chair facing the kitchen. “You live alone?”
Owen bristled at the question. But he took a sip of his coffee and nodded curtly. “Most of the time. Now about my message last night—”
“I guess, being as popular as you people are—”
“Did I mention that I’m waiting for an important phone call?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, you did.”
“Good.” Owen frowned as Archer openly eyed a stack of unopened mail sitting near his elbow.